punching bag
by RookieGinge
Summary: Andy & Sam oneshot. Rated T. / He can see the tense set of her jaw from the side, and the way tears are rolling down her cheeks as she punches and kicks the vinyl, sand-filled sack.


**_Disclaimer:_**_ I do not own Rookie Blue._

_Rated T._

_**A/N:** This is a tag to episode 4, 'Signals Crossed'. It may be a tad overdue, but it only just occurred to me and I couldn't stop writing; not that I wanted to, anyways ;)._

_Involves Andy and Sam; no romance, really, though ..._

_Just a oneshot; adding it to your Story Alert isn't going to change that, sorry._

_Thanks to everyone who's read my other stories, you guys rock!_

_Hope you enjoy!_

_-0-0-_

She's not a violent person.

She believes in getting justice and doing what's right; if she needs to be a bit aggressive to do that, then so be it. And in a situation where she has to protect someone else or herself, she has no qualms in doing whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

But she's not a fan of violence.

And if there's the opportunity to avoid violence and talk things out instead of settling it with punches or kicks or guns, she'll go that route first.

Sometimes, though, when things become a little too overwhelming and it feels as though the world is closing in around her and she can't breathe, she finds herself in desperate need of releasing all the stress in the most instinctual, animalistic way she knows; by throwing a few choice punches.

It's why she's in the basement of the station, thoroughly kicking the stuffing out of a punching bag, when Sam finds her.

He can see the tense set of her jaw from the side, and the way tears are rolling down her cheeks as she punches and kicks the vinyl, sand-filled sack.

He tries calling "Andy," a couple of times, but it's to no avail. She's too focused.

Bracing himself for the worst, he carefully walks up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. Just as he suspected she would, she freezes almost instantly at the contact. Seconds later she's in action, falling back on all of the techniques she remembers from the self-defense classes her dad made her take in high school. In a moment, she has him on his stomach, one of his arms gripped in hers, pressed firmly to his back, as she digs a knee into his spine.

She's breathing heavily, involuntarily flashing back to the earlier events of the evening. A gun pointed at her back, shots fired; that creep's hands on her … She snaps out of it a moment later, recognizing who it is she's on top of. She quickly and gently rolls off of him and on to her backside, hefting herself up with her hands behind her. She sighs and looks to the ceiling briefly.

"Dammit, Sam," she says quietly, her breath hitching a bit, "Do_ not_ sneak up on me like that." She discreetly wipes a hand across her cheeks, trying to be rid of the evidence left behind by her tears.

He's trying not to compare what just happened to their first encounter. There are so many ways in which it's different; but one in which it's the same. He smirks lightly, saying, "Well, you didn't respond when I called your name, so I didn't have much a choice, now, did I?" as he stands up and extends a hand down to her.

"Sorry," she mumbles sincerely, as she accepts his hand and allows him to pull her to her feet. "I'm sorry," she repeats, a little louder, as she catches him hiding a wince as he lightly stretches out his shoulder.

"It's okay," he tells her, giving her a small smile, "Are you?" he asks. "Okay, I mean," he clarifies when her only response is to quirk an eyebrow in confusion.

She wants to tell him that she's fine, just peachy; but the words get caught in her throat. She swallows thickly before simply shrugging her, attempting nonchalant. (As she proved earlier, though, she's a fairly terrible liar; he sees right through it.)

"Not so good, then," he says quietly. He sighs, moving to the wall behind the punching bag and sliding down it to sit on the floor. He jerks his head in a gesture for her to join him. She rolls her eyes slightly before she complies. "Seriously, though," he continues when she's beside him, "How are you?"

She shrugs again, and he bumps her shoulder gently. He doesn't say anything, but she knows that he's expecting a better answer. "I don't know," she tells him, honestly. "I just- And we- And it all …" She fumbles for words, sighing in frustration when she can't manage to form a complete sentence.

He shifts closer, aligning his thigh against hers in silent comfort.

"I can still hear it," she tells him quietly after a couple minutes of semi-uncomfortable silence. "The gunshots, I mean."

He nods, having already read Epstein's report of hearing the gunshots from the room with the bulk of the weapons.

"I can- I can still feel his hands on me," she tells him, squeezing her eyes shut and subconsciously digging her fingers into her thigh. His eyebrows threaten to connect with his hairline and his eyes widen at her words. She hasn't gotten around to writing her report, and he hasn't otherwise heard what went down in the warehouse. "He didn't believe that I wasn't a cop," she continues, even more quietly, "and he was checking for bugs, under my skirt, and he just- And I- I couldn't stop him, because he had a gun to my head, and …" she trails off, turning her head away from him as her shoulders begin to tremble. She doesn't want to appear vulnerable, not in front of him. And certainly never wants to _feel_ as vulnerable as she did in the warehouse, with that gun-runner's paws all over her body as he held her at gunpoint.

As she finishes, he (unsurprisingly) finds his own jaw and fists clenched. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down, but it barely makes a difference. "Oh, Andy," he says quietly as a tear rolls down her cheek. He shifts deftly, wrapping his arms around her trembling, sobbing form.

He can't find any words (none that he thinks would be helpful, anyways), so holding her is the only comfort he knows how to give her at the moment.

He's not a very violent person. He knows better ways of solving situations than throwing a punch; but he can't deny that, sometimes, a good brawl is the easiest way to sort out a problem. That being said; he doesn't think he's ever felt as strong an urge to kick somebody's ass as he does right now.

And if he didn't have Andy to worry about, in his arms, he doesn't know if there'd be anything holding him back from marching right into one of the holding cells and teaching that gun-running bastard a couple important lessons; with his fists.

_-0-0-_

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